The sun beats down through the sparse clouds. It creeps up the beach, tickling my legs and caressing my thighs. On any other occasion, I'd bathe in its glory with my head tipped back and my lips curved up into a smile as I soak in the heat, but this isn't any other occasion. Oh no, today is perhaps the worst kind of day because today is the day that the itch has decided to test me.

How?

Well, it all started when I joined Dad out by the pool. He was draped over a hot pink inflatable with a slice of toast shoved into his mouth. It was ridiculous, and if I were in the drawing mood, I would've caught a quick sketch before he fell off the edge and heaved himself out of the heavily chlorinated water. But I wasn't, so I collapsed beside the plate of toast sitting on the patio edge and grabbed a slice of my own. My feet splashed against the otherwise still surface, creating inconsequential ripples until Dad asked about my summer plans.

I don't have any, not really, and even if I did, I'd have to tell him eventually, but something about the question made me squirm. No, not squirm, jitter.

At first, I didn't get why I couldn't hone in on his voice or why his sentences jumbled in my brain. But then it clicked.

The feeling started in my fingertips—it always does—and travelled upwards until my whole body was alight. I noticed what was going on when Dad floated over and clamped a hand on my knee. "Are you alright?" he asked, eyebrows furrowed, lips pursed.

"Of course," I said.

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah...I just want to go to the beach."

"No one's stopping you," he said, backing away.

"Okay. If anyone asks—"

"You're at the beach." He winked and waved me off as I ran into the house.

After months of nothing and the false alarm yesterday, I didn't expect anything so soon. But the moment I collapsed in front of my suitcase, the itch's presence was all but confirmed.

An old sketchbook was hidden at the bottom of the suitcase, beneath patterned bikinis and denim shorts. I'd thrown it in as a joke, a rubbish one, but a joke nonetheless. Not that it mattered so much, it paid off. Next to the sketchbook was a dented tin of pencils that found their way into my backpack too. They clanged against my plastic water bottle and rattled as I zipped the bag and threw it over my shoulder.

I never thought about losing the sensation. I was too excited for rational thought. But by the time I reached the beach, the spark fizzled out, and I was me again—that is, the new, itchless me.

I can thank my stubbornness for still being here. If I were the type of person who let things go, I'd be back at the pool, wasting away in the icy blue depths. But instead, I'm here with an open sketchbook and an abundance of annoyingly empty pages.

I want to close the book and throw it into the sea where it belongs. Or, better yet, I could dig a hole and bury it. At least if it's under the sand, the eggshell pages grazing against the water table, I'll never have to think about it again. And by it, I mean the itch because if all it does is taunt me, I don't want it. And trust me, when I say this, I mean it.

I've always seen my artistic abilities as a gift. Honestly, my whole life, I've believed they're something special. Something to be cherished, even. And, to a certain extent, hidden way down deep, I still do.

But losing the itch, being teased by it, isn't a gift. It's torture, hell on earth, pure evil. I wouldn't wish it on anyone. Well, maybe Isaac, but otherwise, no one else should have to endure this pain.

Yes, pain. I know I must sound dramatic, but it's painful. In fact, scratch that; it's agonising. Imagine you want vanilla ice cream—that's it, not strawberry or cookie dough or mint choc chip, just vanilla—but all the ice cream van has is chocolate. Imagine that feeling, hold onto it, get really comfy with it, and then you'll understand what I'm going through. Only then will you sympathise with the devastation, the longing and the disappointment. Honestly, even Shakespeare couldn't write this kind of tragedy.

But as with all Shakespearian dramas, it has to come to an end. So instead of lamenting the loss of the itch, or rather because I'm lamenting it, I pack away my sketchbook and switch it out for my camera. It's dainty and pink with a delicate wrist strap that I painted white daisies onto. My parents bought it when I wanted to be just like Henry. I remember insisting I had the family monopoly on art. Honestly, I was convinced Henry's newfound passion for photography was muscling in on my territory. Then I got my own camera and didn't care.

Speaking of the devil, he's here.

When I raise the camera and look through the viewfinder, I spot him. His long legs come into view first, his world-class smile second. Henry's smile is easily his best feature. It's what allowed him to get away with murder when we were growing up. When I see it, I snap a pic and wait for it to print.

The glossy polaroid is sitting in the palm of my hand when he arrives. He collapses across from me and reaches for the photo. "Hey!" I move a second too late, giving him ample time to pluck the picture from my grasp.

He turns it this way and that and grins. "It's pretty good," he says, returning it.

"What are you doing here anyway?" I groan, dusting the excess sand off the photo and cradling it in my hands.

"The same thing as you, apparently."

My eyes trail down; I notice his camera. It's his oldest one. A gift from our parents, or was it our grandparents? The lens protrudes, and he unwinds the cracked leather strap before raising the bulky machine to his eye. "Pose," he says, grinning from behind the camera.

I stick my tongue out, earning me a chuckle, and wait for him to finish.

"How is it?" I ask, fluffing my afro.

"Classic." He hands the camera over.

It's a good photo, a great one. Tightly coiled strands of hair frame my face, and my body is long and elegant as I lean into the sand rather than gangly and awkward. I look pretty awesome for someone who's having a bad day, and for a second, the picture is enough to make it all better. Then I see he who shall not be named, and it's shit again.

"What is he doing here?" I ask, shoving the camera back into Henry's hands.

"Who?"

"You know who."

"Isaac?" he asks, glancing over his shoulder.

"Yes." I struggle to internalise my rage; the affirmation is delivered with an eyewatering amount of spit that leaves me dragging the back of my hand against my moist lips. "Why is he here?" I ask again.

"Because I needed someone to take photos of, and he's the perfect subject."

"No, he's not."

"Hate to break it to you, but he is."

Henry looks over his shoulder again. I follow his gaze until my own settles on the he-devil too. He's perched on the edge of an orange mesh sun lounger. A dazzling smile lights up his face as his lips move, and smooth words probably float out, charming the poor girls who are occupying the loungers. They laugh, throwing their heads back and clinging to one another. I want to vomit. Big, chunky vomit. How gullible can they be?

Then again, he's certainly changed. Long gone is the awkwardness that seemed to encase him two years ago. No, now he's grown into his body. His muscled abdomen, bulging biceps and broad shoulders seem to help capture the girls' attention. Well, that and his face.

Although I'll definitely deny it if asked, he's grown gorgeous, and in the most conventional sense of the word too—big brown eyes, long delicate lashes, plump full lips and dimples to match. But with his unexpected transformation has come a strong jaw and a smoulder that I'm sure can send a few hearts racing. Not mine, obviously, but you know...

Look, the point is he's handsome. I've never lied to myself, and I sure as hell won't start now, particularly if it's about him. He's handsome, traditionally handsome, Prince freaking Charming handsome.

I should turn away, listen to Henry, pick at my peeling nail polish or bury my feet in the sand, something, anything to avoid him, but it's not until he notices me that I can.

It's not an instant reaction. I don't fall over myself to appear nonchalant. He holds my gaze, I narrow my eyes, and then he smirks. It's then that I turn away and zero in on Henry's flapping hands. Good looks or not, he's an arsehole. Always has been, always will be.

~*~

There are very few things that can rectify a terrible day.

Food is one. Especially if it involves a cheese toastie filled to the brim with thick slabs of mature cheddar, dripping mozzarella and a cheeky slice of bacon hiding between the crisp slices of bread.

A good hair day is another. I so rarely have them. It usually takes an hour of wrestling my coiled strands into submission before I can even consider whether I like the final product or not.

The perfect outfit is my final saving grace.

Tonight, I've hit the trifecta. Dinner at an undetermined location, although good food is a certainty, at least if Mum is to be believed, a sleek bun with zero frizz and zero fight and the dress to end all dresses.

I don't remember packing it. Don't remember running my hand along the lilac silk or folding it into a perfect little square with delicately curved edges. I don't remember hiding it under a pair of faded black shorts or slotting it in beside the rigid suitcase wall. But slipping into it, tying the thin elastic straps around my neck, feels like kismet. Like a carefully designed plan handed down by the gods. Like the perfect remedy to my imperfect day.

My family are waiting in the drive. Well, that is my family bar Henry; the Harris family car is missing along with him. Mum barrels us into our own, and Dad drives off without so much as a second glance back.

"Where are we going?" I ask, shoving my head between the two front seats.

"Dinner," Dad says.

"I know that but where?"

"The marina," Mum says. "Now sit back. You're distracting your father."

My seatbelt snaps against my chest when I collapse into my seat. Turning to the window, I run my hand along my leg absentmindedly and stare at the soft orange glow that creeps across the darkening sky. The rainbow homes infect my mind. They fall into the subdued sunset that cradles them like a proud mother and sway undecidedly, desperate to escape the landscape and live.

The image grows, swells, pushes against the contours of my mind. I'm desperate for verification. Desperate to know if they're filled with life. Desperate to know if, in the dwindling light of dusk, the brilliant spectacle becomes a muted monument.

I never get it.

The moment we pile out of the car, Mum grabs me, turning me away from the craggy mountain edge. She digs her nails into my wrist until we slow to a complete stop. Paula whirls around, eyebrows furrowed, but Mum waves her and Dad along. Dad's wearing his hangry face; nothing comes between him and food when it's on. He calls out to Paula, and they're quickly swallowed by the crowd.

"What have I done now?" I ask.

"Nothing, yet."

"Yet?" How ominous.

"Look, Lizzie, I'm not asking for much," she says, squeezing my hand until it feels like it'll burst.

"I didn't realise you were asking for anything at all."

She shoots me a dirty look, and I mumble a half-hearted apology. "All I want is for us to have a lovely evening meal without you or Isaac ruining it."

"Of course," I mutter. "I'll be on my best behaviour."

The entire way to the restaurant, I intend on keeping my promise. Honestly, it settles in until it feels natural, but then I see him, and my resolve thins like Mr Harris' receding hairline.

Issac's sitting beside Henry; I'm forced to sit directly across from him. An unnecessary smile springs onto his face when I sit down. My feet itch, and I'm halfway to booting his shin, but Paula takes my hand in hers. It does little to quell my need to hurt him but is enough to distract me from acting on my more violent desires.

"It'll be fine," she whispers. "Just don't engage."

"Easy for you to say."

"I'm serious, Lizzie."

I'm about to nod, to make another impossible promise, but his voice skips across the table and any willingness to cooperate bounces away with it.

His voice is deeper now, with a silky smoothness that sends a shiver running down my spine. No, not a shiver, a shudder. An acceptable, knee-jerk reaction to his stupid smirk and dangerous intent that sparkles behind his brown eyes.

"We missed you at the beach today," he says, grinning from ear to ear.

I dig my nails into Paula's skin. She yelps while yanking her hand out of my grasp.

"You saw Lizzie at the beach?" Mum's eyes flicker between us. They're narrowed, narrowing to complete slits when they land on me. "She said she didn't see you."

"Oh, she did?" Isaac raises an eyebrow and cocks his head to the side. "How odd. I saw her."

I remain silent. It's safe, much safer than adding fuel to the fire anyway.

Eventually, Dad draws Mum's attention away from us, tugging her into more adult conversation, creating an opening for revenge. Promise or not, he deserves what's coming.

I extend my leg, grazing the tip of my shoe against his, and kick hard. He jumps into the air. His chair shuffles back while a pained smile wriggles onto his face.

"Everything alright, son?" Mr Harris asks, all eyes zeroing in on Isaac.

I wait to see if he'll rat me out—the aim of the game is not to get caught—but he surprises me entirely and nods, muttering something about never being better. I guess he's not ready to give up without a fight. Lucky me.

Our parents move on quickly, although our mothers' eyes linger slightly longer than our fathers', and once the heat of their gaze is gone, he sends me a dirty look. "I see you haven't changed," he mumbles under his breath.

"Oh, and you have?"

"Look at me." His eyes flicker downwards before meeting mine. I shrug and wait. "Come on, Lizzie," he grins, cocky as hell. "I know you hate me and everything, but even you can't deny that I've gotten..."

"What?"

"You know," he says, gesturing to himself.

"I don't. As far as I can tell, you're as self-centred as ever." I pause and consider my options before going for the jugular. "I guess that's why your girlfriend dumped you. You know, since she was in a relationship for three."

"Y-yo-you bitch!"

And just like that, I win.

Forget the trifecta. I hit the holy grail.

***

Hey guys,

You've finally met Isaac!

Was he everything you expected, or has Elizabeth been exaggerating?

I hope you enjoyed the chapter. If you did, please remember to share, comment and vote.

xxx